Last Gasp
by Nyx6
Summary: When Dean comes down with what he in his infinite wisdom maintains is “just a bad cold,” Sam makes them stop to rest-up. What neither of them realise however, is that the town they choose has a deadly little problem of its own…
1. One

Fasten your seat belts ladies and gents, we're off again!

* * *

**I.**

As far as Sam could remember, Dean had only really been ill twice before in his life.

Once when they were very young and Sam was perhaps two and a half – a sketchy recollection of their father perched on the edge of Dean's bed, gently pressing a cool washcloth to his oldest son's head and talking slowly and calmly, eyes full of gentleness and patience. The second time however, Sam remembered only too well. He'd been twelve years old, Dean had caught the flu from God only knew where – probably the inside of a girls' mouth – and John had swept back in from a job itching to move them on. It had been the first time Sam had told their father 'no'. Stood up straight, looked him in the eyes and said it.

"_No. Dean's too sick. He's not moving."_

Later of course, such rebellion was to grow into an almost daily occurrence, but back then it had been the defining moment of his life, all done for his older brother.

He'd watched over the previous days as Dean's 'cold' had turned into a full-blown case of the flu, watched how the weariness had turned into exhaustion, how the waning appetite had died altogether and how the slow shuffle had turned into more of a blind stumble across the room leaning heavily on any piece of furniture that came into contact with his hand. He'd almost fallen and cracked his head on the basin at one point, which had been the moment Sam had decided to ditch school and care for him instead. After all their dad wasn't there and Dean was too ill to argue it, in a strange way it had almost been nice to care for his older brother, to go across to the convenience store for medicine and energy drinks in an attempt to be useful. Dean had been caring for him his whole life, returning the favour made Sam feel like a man. Albeit a little one. He'd even made soup, in the microwave admittedly but Dean had said it was the best he'd ever tasted – which Dean would. But he'd still been sick, bordering on hallucination when John had strode back in, all barked orders and muddy boots,

"_Pack your things boys, I want to be out of here by tonight."_

"_Dean's sick."_

"_What?"_

A flicker of concern towards his eldest for the first time, lying pale and sweaty in one of the beds.

"_I think it's the flu."_

A flicker of hesitation, torn between concern and urgency,

"Sammy – ,"

"_No."_

The 'no' had surprised them both, especially John who seemed to move rapidly through a range of emotions before finally trying again,

"_Sam."_

He'd been turned down a second time too.

Sam could remember his fists trembling from where they'd been balled by his sides, his eyes glaring up furiously. He didn't care if his father grounded him for a month or heaped extra training on him, he could do what he liked, Dean was _not_ moving and he knew it as surely as he knew his brother would fight the same way for him. He owed Dean that much and apparently even John had realised it, letting out a long sigh, wiping a hand across his face and nodding in defeat.

"_Okay Sammy, you win."_

Maybe it was that single concession that had made him believe he could win the war against his father, maybe that moment had given him the strength to believe he could shape his own life after all, either way the fact remained that he'd done it all for Dean – stood up and fought for him when he'd been too weak to do it for himself. What was more, he'd have gladly done it again too.

He didn't realise he was about to get that chance…


	2. Two

**II.**

It had started with a dry cough and a dripping nose as they'd put rubber to the highway, both actions stifled as surreptitiously as possible into the eldest Winchester's sleeve. To no avail.

"Are you going to keep wiping snot across your jacket?" Sam had asked sarcastically in the Motorhead-filled silence, turning to bore holes into the side of his brother's head, "Or do you need a tissue?"

Dean had taken one resentfully, swiping it from outstretched fingers with a grumpy mumble whilst stoutly refusing to make eye contact,

"It's just a cold Sam."

"Right."

That had been the first day of flu-gate.

On the second the formerly dry cough had decided to turn chesty and in apparent sympathy the dripping nose had stuffed shut too, like a filled-in well. It was the throat that was the worst however, like a series of razor blades raking across his skin the second he dared speak, swallow or even draw breath.

Sam knew instantly of course without the need for words, hearing the doughy-sounding syntax from Dean's few mumbled words and judging the throat from the series of winces and grimaces that had presented themselves over the breakfast table. As tasty as it was – or probably not with blocked nasal passages – crispy bacon was doing little in the way of soothing the inflammation.

Sam had dropped the chilled bottle of water into his brother's lap as they'd climbed into the car, earning himself a long appraising look.

"It's just a cold Sam."

"Right."

The third day had brought headaches – as displayed by lots of eye-shutting and frequent pinching at the bridge of his nose – and eyes so red and watery that they looked like he'd been pepper sprayed. It was starting to look like more than just a cold and by the time the shakes had set in at lunchtime – along with an unattractively sweaty pallor – Sam knew enough was enough.

"Pull over Dean."

"Huh?"

The single confused sounding syllable came out low and gruff across multiple layers of combined pain and mucus, his brother looking genuinely surprised as he glanced over from the driver's seat, fighting hard to keep his attentions on the road ahead. Sam didn't even blink,

"I said pull over."

The frown that bounced back at him was almost laughably oblivious,

"What? Why? You sick?"

_Oh the irony. _Instead of a response Sam simply sat calmly in the passenger seat, shaking his head and feeling the Impala dutifully rumble off the highway onto the shoulder after a light pause, Dean's attentions fixed squarely on him.

"What gives Sam?"

"I'm driving."

"You – _you're_ driving?"

As his brother refused to accept what was happening, probably as addled by the flu as by genuine confusion, Sam simply turned, adopting a look of patient authority, tone calm but serious,

"You're sick, all right? And the last thing we need is you steering us off the road, so just move over and let me drive."

"Sam – ," it sounded whiny, petulant even and the lack of irritation only strengthened Sam's resolve,

"Move."

Dean didn't argue, he didn't even mutter, simply flinging open the door and trudging around to the other side of the car, face like thunder but the severity lessened by a sudden coughing fit. Sam clambered out, one hand resting against his brother's arm in gentle concern,

"You okay?"

Dean flapped him off testily,

"Fantastic."

Which in Dean Winchester language meant he was anything but. Sam rolled his eyes silently, heading around the take the wheel and flipping the heater up in defiance of the _waste of gas_ frown the action caused. Petrol be damned, Dean needed heat whether he liked it or not. Indicating his way back onto the road again, Sam offered one final instruction before pulling out and falling into silence.

"There's medicine in the glove compartment. Take some."

It wasn't long before Dean's crumpled frown of defiance faded into grudging obedience, pouring the sticky liquid out onto a tiny plastic spoon and trying to avoid the upholstery, the action seeming all the more difficult for swimming vision, shaking hands and a road in desperate need of resurfacing. Sam watched from the corner of his eyes.

The medicine tasted like crap, mentholated crap, so strong that it made Dean shudder as it rushed through his congested nasal passages and slid down his throat like a dose of gooey slime.

"Holy – ," was the only word he could manage before disgust overtook him completely and he had to put out a hand to brace himself against the dash as his stomach churned in protest. Sam watched him in a mixture of sympathy and amusement wondering how on earth Dean could make such a fuss about taking simple flu medicine, "Dude!" a spluttered cough, "Are you trying to kill me? What the hell was in that stuff?"

"Eucalyptus," came the calm reply,

"I'm freakin' crying!" and he was too, tears streaming from his eyes and his formerly stuffed nose dripping freely again. The wonders of natural medicine.

"It'll help Dean,"

"Help with what?!"

Although no sooner had it started than the argument died down again, Dean suddenly slumping back exhausted and sliding down the leather until he was low enough to rest his head on the back of the seat, breathing heavily through his mouth as if he'd run a marathon. Swinging a hand over into the back, Dean groped around for his coat, pulling it free of the piles of rubbish that tended to mount up on the rear seat and dragging it over to use as a blanket, slapping Sam in the side of the head with the zipper and briefly obscuring his vision as he did,

"Dean – ,"

"'M cold," came the miserably mumbled reply, cooling Sam's irritation in its tracks. Taking a hand from the wheel, Sam reached over, pressing the back of his fingers to one of Dean's pale cheeks and just about managing to judge the temperature before being pushed away again. He flipped up the heater accordingly.

"Here."

"You're wasting fuel Sam."

"Tough."

As Dean's eyes started to slide close and he settled into the seat with something like a contented sigh, Sam made up his mind, turning the car smoothly off the highway and following signs for the nearest town. It was crazy to expect Dean to sleep off a cold, or the flu or whatever the hell it was, cramped in the front seat of a thirty-something year old car – rebuilt or otherwise – and as the rooftops and stonework of civilisation fell into view through the windscreen Sam instantly started to feel better. They would get a room somewhere, hole up and let a comfy mattress do the work. Plus it would save on gas, so even Dean would have something to smile about, which was how he was still rationalising the detour as he pulled into the motel parking lot and shut off the engine. Beside him, Dean's face crumpled but his eyes remained closed,

"Sam. Why're we stoppin'?"

It was so slurred he barely needed a reply.

"Wait here,"

"Sam?"

"I'll be back in a minute."

The response that bit back at him as he opened the door and clambered out was grumpy enough to make him smile,

"Better not be gettin' more medicine…stuff tasted like crap..."

Sam rolled his eyes and slammed shut the door. So much for gratitude.

The motel was much the same as all the others they'd stayed at over the years, except thankfully in good condition and clearly well cared for, which made a change from the moth-eaten bio-hazards they were usually forced to crash in. At least Dean wouldn't be trading in the flu for something worse. Thank heavens for small mercies.

Pushing his way into the reception area, Sam stamped the wintry damp from his boots on the welcome mat - a nice additional touch - and crossed over to the desk, tapping his palm lightly on the bell for assistance. Even the note of the single _ding_sounded pleasant and what was more it instantly brought out a woman somewhere in her late fifties, with untidy curls of greying-blonde hair and a weary smile.

"Sorry sweetheart," she offered by way of apology, the smell of cigarettes clinging to her well-worn cardigan, "You been waiting long?"

"No," he replied with a smile, "Just got here. I'd like a room," _Obviously_, "Twin."

"I think we can stretch to that," she winked, picking up a pen and opening the guest book, "Place is almost deserted, not many folks travelling these parts at this time of year. Name?"

"Olafsen,"

It matched the name on their cards, but even he had to admit that it was not their most convincing alias. Still if the woman noted his apparent Scandinavian heritage then she didn't mention it, instead scribbling down the details and then looking up at him again,

"And how long will you be staying for?"

Sam paused briefly, turning to cast his gaze out of the window to where he could just see the back of the Impala, as if a glimpse of the black paintwork would help him with his decision. He smiled back at the woman apologetically,

"I'm not really sure. My brother's coming down with something and I kinda just wanted to get him off the road for a while. So – ,"

The woman interrupted him suddenly with a sympathetic clucking noise, clicking her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shaking her head,

"Dear, dear," she sighed pityingly, "It isn't that dreadful flu that's been going around is it?"

Sam frowned. _That_ dreadful flu? Surely the flu was the flu?

"Um…" he paused, "Well, I – ,"

"My neighbour had it," the woman continued oblivious, leaning in across the counter in a suddenly conspiratorial gesture, "Fit as you or me she was, then the next thing you know she's got a bit of a blocked nose. Twenty-four hours later she was dead. Drained the life right out of her."

"Really," Sam drawled back at her lazily, resisting the urge to sigh. No matter the symptoms, illness or complaint there always seemed to be some helpful person on hand to provide a suitable horror story. This one beat the lot. The motel worker however didn't quite pick up on his cynicism,

"Oh yes, sucked her dry. Happened to a man across town just last week too. Same thing, bit bunged up one day, dead the next. He went swimming three times a week too."

He wasn't exactly sure what the swimming thing was supposed to prove – fitness presumably – but it was clear that the tales of woe were not going to stop until he made them and so looking up with a smile he simply handed across a credit card and tried to sound cheerful,

"How about four nights to begin with?"

She took it from him, back to business once more as she fumbled about for a set of keys,

"Right you are. You'll be in room sixteen. Just come back if you need anything."

"Thanks," Sam nodded, turning back towards the welcome mat and pushing out through the door. _As if_.

The cold air hit him square in the chest, like a giant icy hand wrapping frozen fingertips around him and gripping tight. Gritting his teeth he pulled up his collar, letting the door swing closed behind him and turning to head out across the parking lot. As he did he collided with someone, hard.

"Oh," he gasped in surprise as the impact knocked the wind from his lungs, putting out an instinctive hand to steady the other figure, "Sorry."

A man stared back at him, tall and slender. The face was long, thin and wrinkled with two eyes so light they seemed almost colourless peering out unseeing under long clumps of matted white hair. There was a wooden stick in the man's deathly pale hand, resting awkwardly against the sidewalk and Sam stifled a groan. He'd nearly knocked over an old blind man. Nice going. The man stayed silent and unmoving before him and, clearing his throat, Sam tried again,

"Are you okay?"

Nothing. Although as he lent forward breathing in deeply against the shock of the impact, the man's head suddenly snapped towards him, the nose wrinkling and the head tilting curiously to one side as he began to sniff the air in front of him.

Sam took a step back. They'd not been in town more than five minutes and he'd already managed to find the resident weirdo. Perfect. After waiting a second longer to make sure the man wasn't hurt – he didn't seem to be – Sam shook his head threw his eyes skywards and carried on towards the Impala, new room keys jingling merrily in his pocket as he went.

Dean was where Sam had left him, slumped back against the seat, eyes shut and only his head exposed above the coat-come-blanket he'd draped over himself. He was leaning close to the passenger side door and as Sam opened it a fraction he was half afraid his brother would tumble out altogether, but Dean ever the hunter seemed prepared and despite jumping in fright at the sudden click of the handle – eyes flying open at the same time – he did at least hold himself upright.

"Sam?" he mumbled sleepily, freeing a hand from underneath his coat and rubbing it across red eyes, "What's going on?"

Gently Sam pulled off the makeshift blanket, balling it under one arm and extending the other towards Dean as he kept the car door open with his foot,

"I got a room," he replied, neglecting to mention how long for. He doubted Dean would remember anyway.

"A room? Why?"

"Because," Sam sighed, trying to keep his voice even, "You need to rest up Dean."

A snort of derision or else annoyance fired back at him quickly,

"It's just a cold," he snapped before sneezing loudly. Sam stared back at him, decidedly unamused.

"Humour me, okay?"

Letting out a long sigh of reluctant compliance Dean lifted his head off the back of the seat, just managing to stop before his chin crashed forwards into his chest and wondering when exactly his skull had turned into a lead weight, or his limbs for that matter. Sam was still hovering in the door, an arm hanging in the air for assistance. Dean snorted mentally, flu or no flu he was damned if he was going to hold his little brother's hand in plain view of the whole freakin' neighbourhood. No way. He settled instead for grabbing a chunk of Sam's jacket, hauling himself upright hand-over-hand, inching his way up the material until he was out of the car and standing unsteadily on his feet. He smiled triumphantly,

"Ta da,"

Sam was less than impressed,

"Great. Now think you can make it to the room without taking a nose-dive?"

Dean puffed himself up indignantly,

"I'm not an invalid Sam."

"Could have fooled me."

That was what it had sounded like.

"What?"

"Nothing. Come on,"

Not willing to take any chances, Sam took firm hold of Dean's arm, frog-marching him one slow step at a time across the parking lot and towards the motel room door.

"Sixteen," Dean commented wearily as Sam leant him against the bricks and fumbled in his pocket for the keys, "My lucky number."

"Huh?" Sam peered at him quizzically. Since when did Dean have a lucky number? Perhaps the eucalyptus was not the only ingredient in the medicine that was having an effect. He gave his older brother a sudden lop-sided smile, "Starting to feel better?"

Dean brought up a hand, his index finger and thumb suspended close to one another indicating a measurement. _A bit_. He grinned widely, his head starting to spin like a sixties rock groupie too long on the peace pipe. It was kind of cool.

"Whoa!"

Sam caught him before he planted sideways onto the ground, the pair of them stumbling into the room and dropping everything that didn't matter onto the floor as Sam hauled him awkwardly towards a bed. Dean flopped down on it heavily and stayed there, staring up at the ceiling as his circling vision slowed to just a minor tilt. It was a hell of a cold all right. Sam was still standing over him, watching as his brother's eyes rotated wildly. He let out a breathless sigh,

"I'm going to get the rest of our stuff from the car okay? Stay here," the lack of response made his tone harden, "Dean? _Stay here_."

"'Kay Sammy, 'kay."

He listened absently as his brother's boots stomped from the room, the fresh air still blowing in freely through the open door. Taking in a deep gulp of it, Dean abruptly wished he hadn't as it stuck fast in his throat and brought on a sudden coughing fit that made his chest ache as it jerked up and down. He rolled onto his side instinctively, curling up and gasping for breath as his lungs crackled with infection. _Fun._

As a shadow fell across the doorway Dean looked up hoping for Sam who, whilst no Florence Nightingale would hopefully have enough sense to at least get him some water. What he saw however through his spinning and foggy gaze was a tall, thin figure, long untidy white hair hanging across a pale face tilted curiously to one side. A pair of almost white eyes stared in at him, gazing straight through him into his soul.

Dean blinked and turned his head, burying it briefly into the covers. When he looked up again the man was gone, leaving Dean with a final thought before he dropped off to sleep, listening absently as Sam staggered in moments later under the weight of their kit.

_Great the hallucinations have started and this time they're early._

Maybe it wasn't a cold after all.

* * *

I think I've been inspired by all the snow on this one! I'm so used to being huddled up under layers and sniffing that I've passed my discomfort on to Sam and Dean! Sorry fellas!

Anyway, as always clickity-click and let me know the score lovely people!

Until next time…


	3. Three

**III.**

Dean slept on and off for the next four hours, occasionally waking on his own – usually as the result of a coughing fit – or otherwise being woken by Sam for a variety of different reasons, the first of which had been to take his temperature. He'd complained bitterly about being woken up, using mumbled half-sentences that even Sam had trouble understanding, the thermometer suspended under his tongue doing little to help,

"Wan' sleep…Sam…had my gun…shoot you."

The general meaning had been clear enough.

"Just a bit longer Dean,"

He doubted Florence Nightingale had ever had to put up with death threats and that had been in the great era of amputation when hacking limbs off people had almost been standard procedure. Dean was a lousy patient but it seemed he had good reason. He was running a temperature. Not major, but enough to dampen his already none-too cheerful disposition.

The fever revelation had prompted a second wake-up call, this time with the purpose of getting Dean to take off as many layers as he could manage. He hadn't been happy about that either and removing his jeans had been a near ten minute ordeal that had been so painfully slow Sam had almost just stepped in and done it himself, except he knew their mutual embarrassment would have outweighed his lack of patience tenfold. Plus, Dean definitely would have reached for his gun, flu or no flu. The jacket and shirt however were open territory and Sam had whipped them from his brother's back before Dean even knew what was happening, propping him upright against his chest to more threatening and insults,

"Perv…"

"Bitch all you want Dean," Sam had sighed, folding the clothes neatly and lying them at the foot of the bed before moving onto shoes and socks, "But it's either this or a cool shower."

He'd shut-up after that, and after one well-placed kick on the backside as Sam had leant over to set his boots on the ground, he'd stopped resisting as well. By the time he was allowed to return to sleep ten minutes and another dose of medicine later, he was down to just his t-shirt, boxers and a single blanket. Sam opened the window too, just to be sure. It meant having to sit at the laptop with his coat zipped up to his neck but at least Dean wouldn't overheat.

Curiously and starved for entertainment other than Dean's wheezy but rhythmic breathing, he brought up the two flu-related deaths the woman at reception had told him about, getting both the death records and relevant newspaper articles. The female neighbour only had an obituary entry, but the swimmer had a full column – swimming having been his actual profession rather than just a passing hobby.

He had been fifty-six, not as young as Dean but by no means old. She had been thirty-four and other than complaining of congestion and blocked sinuses, neither patient had given any cause for concern in the twenty-four hours leading up to their death. It was as the doom-and-gloom merchant at the front desk had told him, within the space of a day the life had just ebbed from them and they'd been found stone cold dead.

Sam frowned, instinct tugging at him. It was a strange pair of cases that much was obvious, but as for supernatural? What exactly sped up influenza to the point of death, what would want to? Unless of course it was something sucking the life out of people, in which case the question was why was it picking specifically on people with cold symptoms. Maybe sick people were weaker, which would surely mean it was something weak itself. Sam sighed as his brain came up empty, mentally checking and then discounting things again. There were several candidates, but nothing that seemed to fit.

Then of course there were the scientific footnotes to the article, provided by some Professor of Infectious Diseases at a local university. He didn't seem particularly stumped by the deaths attributing both to underlying health conditions, an undetected heart murmur here, a blood disorder there. Perfectly normal and nothing for the population at large to worry about was the message. He was probably right and yet…

"Sam?"

It was a barely coherent croak, part-mumble, part-gasp and part-cough. But it was also very definitely Dean. Sam's head snapped up at once and within seconds he was crossing the room to hover beside the bed watching as one bleary eye stared up at him, the other crushed into the folds of the pillow.

"'S cold,"

"You've got a fever Dean. The window's open."

"Close't."

"I can't, we've got to keep your temperature down."

"'M cold."

It wasn't a conversation that was going to go anywhere and so instead Sam pulled up the covers slightly in concession. It wasn't going to do much harm, the room was a little on the arctic side after all.

"Hey Dean?"

"Yeah," came the groggy response after an enthusiastic bout of throat-clearing, "What?"

"What would you think if I told you that two people who were otherwise fit and healthy both came down with cold and flu symptoms and were dead within twenty-four hours?"

Lying on his front with his head dipped into the pillow, Sam couldn't be entirely sure if his brother had heard or not, or even if he was still actually awake. After a brief pause however, he finally spoke in a low croaking whisper.

"You tryin' cheer m'up?" he mumbled with a hint of amused irritation. Sam blinked,

"What?" he realised belatedly how it must have sounded, "No, not you! I was talking about two deaths here in town,"

An interested quirk of eyebrows around otherwise closed eyes,

"S'pernatural?"

Sam smiled,

"I don't know. Had the life sucked right out of them apparently."

"S'pernatural." It was no long a question and Sam sighed wearily in response.

"You think?" Silence greeted his query and he turned towards his brother suddenly concerned, "Dean?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you think the deaths were supernatural?"

"Wha'deaths?"

_Perfect_. But still Dean was right. Sam's instincts had said pretty much the same thing and Dean's had confirmed it, well, at least they had in his brief moment of lucid-thought, which reminded him it was probably time for more medicine. Reaching across to the bedside cabinet Sam snatched up the colourful bottle, struggling briefly with the damn kiddie proofing before busting his way in and starting to gloop some of the liquid out onto the spoon. It filled almost half before giving out.

"Damn."

"Wha- ?"

No matter how comatose he was and how addled by the ravages of flu, Dean could still sense Sam's agitation a mile off.

"Looks like we've run out of stuff."

A sleepy grin.

"Than'god."

"I'll have to go get some more," the grin vanished instantly and as Sam stood he tried to hide his own, "Want anything else while I'm out?"

"Pops'cles."

"Popsicles?"

"For m'throat," came the pitiful sounding explanation as Dean stroked a finger miserably against his Adam's apple and tried to look sad through layers of sleep. Sam nodded, patting his pockets to make sure he was all set for venturing out into the darkening evening. Wallet? Check. Keys? Check. He cast appraising eyes over Dean a final time, scrunched into the sheets in an almost foetal position,

"There's a store just up the road. You going to be okay for five minutes?"

"Mmhmm."

"Need anything before I go?"

"No."

"Water?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"K'off Sam."

The youngest Winchester grinned in amusement as the grumpy tone bit back at him, _okay, you're sure_.

"I won't be long all right? Dean?"

There was a vague growl from under the sheets and then a grumble of repetition,

"No'long…'kay, got it."

"And don't shut that window."

A snort. As if he could.

The door slammed shut firmly and the room was plunged into blissful silence, with not even the tapping of the keyboard invading Dean's blocked and whistling ears. He let out a sigh. Peace.

Although it didn't last long as the sigh turned into another coughing fit, jerking his already painful chest up and down violently. Frantically he flung out a hand towards the bedside table in search of the bottle of water Sam had provided earlier and managing only to stick his hand in the half-poured out medicine instead. _Crap_. He should have taken Sam up on his offer after all. Pulling himself free of the sticky liquid he continued to fumble about until he knocked into something, listening to the bottle slide across the polished wood and fall with a thud onto the floor. _Double crap_.

As the coughing subsided to simple gasps for air, Dean rolled over onto his other side flinging his arm down to scratch along the carpet, his face pointing towards the door. As his cloudy vision fell upon the windows however he started in fright and nearly tipped out of the bed altogether, water forgotten.

The man was there again on the other side staring in at him, cold white eyes zeroing in through the glass, hair hanging down before his face and trickling with droplets of rain water, beads sliding slowly down the deathly pale cheeks.

For a horrible second Dean was convinced it was a reaper and that's Sam's stupid flu-death story was true, but as the thing just continued to stand and stare through the glass at him Dean started to slowly relax. Not a reaper. But still damned creepy. _It's a hallucination. Just a hallucination._

The sound of screeching however quickly broke his thoughts and as he turned towards his audience again he realised what the sound was. It was a nail being scraped slowly down the pane. A high-pitched wail that invaded his pounding ears until he could do nothing but clamp his hands to his ears and screw up his face against the pain. It was still there, still watching him and able to take it no longer Dean rolled clean off the bed and onto the floor with a thump. It hurt. It hurt quite a lot but almost instantly the screeching stopped the only sound Dean could hear being the beat of his own heart ringing clearly in his ears as he panted. Was it gone?

The rattle of the door handle made him jump all over again and frantically pushing aside the addles of flu, sleep and general aches and pains, Dean turned to crawl across the floor, half-dragging himself by his elbows until he was at one of the bags Sam had dumped on the ground earlier. Pushing himself onto his knees he began to fumble unsuccessfully with the zipper. _Come on!_

It came away with a wrench taking half the material with it but leaving a hole in the bag at the same time. Dean dove a hand into it quickly, coming up with his gun and slowing sliding back the top with shaking hands. Abruptly his vision started to spin and he put out a hand to stop from pitching down onto the ground. He was shaking visibly again, tremors running over his body, the t-shirt clinging to his slick skin. He swung the gun upwards quickly, hands shaking so much it seemed to vibrate before his eyes. Then, just as abruptly the handle suddenly stopped shaking and the room fell quiet again.

The breath tore from his throat in the silence, a frown of utter bewilderment on his face. Suddenly and with a need so childish it almost embarrassed him, he wanted Sam. He wanted to know what was happening and then there was the sound of keys scratching at the lock and a figure stepped into the room to the greeting of a hastily raised semi-automatic.

Sam stood in the doorway frozen in astonishment, the bag of supplies gripped in his hands,

"Dean?" He took in the gun and the expression in a second flat, wrenching the keys from the door and slamming it behind him before dropping the bag onto the floor and crossing the room in two even strides, "Dean!" he barked in horror, falling to a squat beside his brother and putting hands to his shoulders, "What happened?" he panted, sliding the gun from trembling fingers and looking up wide-eyed, "Are you okay?"

"The window," came the exhausted reply, a quiver of fright running through it. Sam glanced towards it instantly not entirely surprised to find nothing on the other side. He turned back frowning.

"What about it?"

"Someone…there,"

By now Dean's every word sounded like a struggle, but keen to quell whatever fears had caused the sudden terror Sam dutifully made a show of checking. Nothing.

"Dean, I was just in the parking lot okay? It's empty, nobody's there."

"I _saw_ him!"

He seemed insistent, hands gripping onto his brother's jacket fiercely and sensing his urgency Sam heaved a sigh, nodding gently and untangling their fearful death-grip on one another. Slowly he stood up, crossing to the window and taking a long steady look out. Again. Nothing. He turned back gently, tone calm and as understanding as he could manage without sounding scared by events himself – although more from the whole gun-brandishing than some supposed figure in the window.

"I promise. There's no one there."

Dean's face promptly screwed up in confusion, his expression as clear as if he'd been saying it. _No one?_ Sam shook his head. _No one_. Dean looked utterly bewildered. The hallucinations had obviously been more powerful than he'd thought and, as the adrenaline started to wear off he suddenly realised how exhausted he felt. Besides which his throat still hurt like someone had run a grater over it, which reminded him,

"Sam?"

"Yeah?" It was an alert response, his little brother instantly ready to appease whatever new fears the elder held. This time there was only one, but it was important.

"You get the pops'cles?"

* * *

Ahhh flu hallucinations, I remember mine well!

As ever I want to say a big sloppy old thank you to all my conscientious reviewers and I hope everyone who is reading along likes things so far…there's plenty more where this came from (well, another seven-ish chapters but you get the point!)


	4. Four

**IIII.**

The next time Dean woke everything was dark and for a moment he thought he'd gone blind. It took a few groggy seconds for him to realise that the covers were simply drawn up around his head and that the reason he'd abandoned the land of nod was on account of his exposed toes starting to go numb with cold. Wincing, he battled the sheets back down again, creaking about on the well-used little mattress and suddenly wondering why Sam had not materialised in the corners of his foggy vision.

Coming awake properly he blinked for the first time, raising a hand to wipe the moisture from his eyes and noticing the strange blue glow lighting up the room. Lifting his head he was pleased to find it slightly lighter than the last time he'd tried and slowly he propped himself up onto an elbow with the aid of shaking limbs. The light was streaming from the little TV set balanced on top of the dresser, the sound muted and the picture showing a series of cheesy infomercials staring wildly grinning human guinea pigs promoting the sort of ridiculous items that only insomniacs would ever be fooled into thinking useful. Which answered his question about the time of day. Somewhere in the early hours of the morning.

Turning his head again, craning his neck as far sideways as it would go and wincing at the stiffness, Dean turned his gaze towards the bed beside him eyes finally falling on the familiar figure of his brother sitting half-upright against the headboard, pillows propped behind his back, head lolling forwards. In one limp hand he clutched the TV remote but he was obviously way past seeing it. Dean shut his eyes briefly, stifling a groan as a wash of exhaustion passed over him, still he didn't want to sleep again, he'd been doing that the whole day and while he still couldn't breathe and every inch of his body still seemed to ache around him, the wash of delirium seemed to have passed and he felt at the very least vaguely coherent. He also needed the bathroom. Desperately.

Letting out another low groan and sucking in a breath through clenched teeth, Dean shuffled his feet towards the edge of the bed, sticking his toes out into the cold once more and gently lowering them onto the soft but gritty texture of the well-trodden motel carpet. Levering himself fully upright took a little longer, the process about as smooth and speedy as a crane winching up a steel girder, but he managed it eventually, sitting still to let the spinning in his head subside. He shot a quick look towards the window, the image of the pale-faced man still clear in his mind. He shuddered suddenly putting it down to the cold and noticing as the closed drapes fluttered softly that the window was still wide open, the artificial orange light of the car park beaming in softly through the material.

Sam was still sleeping soundly and, not wanting to wake him, Dean inched himself to his feet, testing pound by pound that his legs could take the weight. It seemed they could, but walking was a whole other problem. It was just as well the bathroom was close to his bed otherwise he probably wouldn't have made it, relying on an ungainly shuffle to cover the ground and a heavy lean forward to provide propulsion. It was either move or end up sprawled on the carpet.

The iciness of the lino bit harshly into the soles of his feet and the light once he'd stopped fumbling for the cord in the pitch black, blinded him so fiercely that he yelped, clapping a hand to his eyes newly content to do his business in the dark. Now where in the hell was the can? As his little toe collided hard with the edge of the vanity unit, Dean cursed abruptly, stumbling forward awkwardly and landing elbow-down in the porcelain sink sending shivers coursing up and down his arm at both the nerve-impact and the ceramic chill. It was worse than a Laurel and Hardy film and what was more it was obviously louder than he'd thought too.

"Dean?" Twisting towards the voice with his fingers open in slivers across his eyes, Dean took in his brother standing looking alarmed in the doorway, hair mussed from sleep one hand clamped to the obvious crick in his neck. Well if he would fall asleep with his head hanging forward what did he expect? "Dean, what's wrong? Are you okay?"

Two questions fired off in quick succession, a sure sign of panic. Slowly Dean let the hand drop from his face, eyes slowly adjusting to the absurdly light glow,

"I'm fine Sam," he shot back, feeling utterly useless for not even having been able to make it to the bathroom without creating World War Three. What kind of hunter was he? His voice sounded better though, well, no less croaky, but at least every syllable was present again, his head firmly back on his shoulders and not floating away on cloud cuckoo-land, "Just needed the bathroom that's all."

Sam gazed back at him defiantly, expression only marred by the still-present fog of sleep.

"Why didn't you wake me up?"

"'Cos you were sleeping. I'm not incapable,"

"You were swearing,"

"I kicked the damn vanity, okay?"

"Break anything?"

For a second Dean wasn't sure whether he meant bones or furniture but he quickly shook it aside in favour of greater concerns,

"No, but my bladder's going to burst in a minute if you don't get out of here."

"You – ," Sam paused suddenly, seeming awkward but determined, "You need a hand?"

Dean glared at him,

"What are you going to do? Hold it for me? Back off Nurse Ratched. I got this one," his bravado was abruptly countered by a vague stagger and Dean gripped onto the edge of the counter as he suddenly pitched for no reason. Sam's hand shot out towards him at once but was hastily flapped away, "Dude back off already! You're giving me the creeps. Look, I promise not to cream myself against the bathtub all right? I'm taking a leak Sam, not writing my damn life-story, I'll be thirty seconds."

Letting out a long-suffering sigh Sam reluctantly backed out of the bathroom, watching Dean slam the door shut behind him. It was definitely not a good idea to have him wandering about given that thirteen hours earlier he'd been so out of it that he'd been convinced a reaper was trying to get in through the window. Still, that had been thirteen hours ago and he certainly seemed to have regained his biting humour in that time, as well as some – though not all – of his faculties. Turning off the TV Sam plunged the room into darkness, replacing it instead with the comfortingly muted glow of the bedside lamp and glancing at the alarm clock at he did. It was nearly six, although the wintry darkness made it seem at least three hours earlier than that. Still, it was time for Sam to get up – not that falling asleep slumped in his clothes really constituted having gone to bed in the first place. Again his fingers curled absently around his stiff neck.

"Dean?"

It had been at least a minute and there had been neither sign nor sound of his brother in the bathroom. Not good. Stepping towards it he raised his fist to knock, almost pounding it into the elder's face as Dean chose exactly the same moment to step out through the door. Sam's tight grip kept him upright as he reeled backwards,

"Jeez Sammy, you gonna beat this thing out of me now?"

"What took you so long?" He knew the answer he was going to get before he got it, his worried-sounding question leading him wide open to ridicule. He huffed a sigh in advance as Dean smiled widely on cue, the only thing letting down the effect his congested near-growl of a voice,

"Did you miss me sweetheart?"

It was like being hit on by Barry White. Sam took hold of his sleeve gently, steering him in the general direction the bed,

"Just…sit down,"

"Sam," instantly Dean's tone hardened, letting Sam wheel him towards the bed and hover over him as he sat back on it, "I'm _fine_. Worry about yourself. Did you get any sleep last night?"

Abruptly Sam looked evasive, turning to plump Dean's cushions like an obsessive nursemaid as he tried to answer casually,

"Yeah, I got – ,"

"Liar," the interruption caught him off guard and he chanced a look up to find Dean's eyes on him squarely, "You got none. Unless a crick in the neck is the new sign of a good night's rest."

"I got enough," Sam sighed, flapping the covers of his own bed into place and straightening the sheets. Dean frowned, the answer obviously not the one he was looking for.

"Hey, it's not like I'm going anywhere," he responded, pulling the covers closer around him, "Even if I wanted to." His meaning was clear, _Sam, go back to bed_. It drew only a snort,

"_You're_ not going anywhere. But I am,"

"What?" Dean's brow crumpled instantly, "Where?"

Crossing the room Sam picked up one of the print-offs lying beside the laptop, passing it to Dean as he strode by his bed into the bathroom. He doubted that Dean would be able to read the text given how crap he felt and the silence only proved his point, so instead he provided a running commentary from the sink as he went through his short morning routine, figuring the shirt would last for another day as he sprayed on some more deodorant.

"I'm going into town, thought I'd try and find out some more about those deaths."

He could hear the frown in Dean's voice,

"Deaths? What deaths?"

"I told you about them last night, people dying of suspected flu. Only the papers quote them as having had the life sucked out of them," poking his head out of the door and patting his chin dry with a towel, Sam took in Dean's blank expression as his brother tried desperately to make out the words sitting on the paper before him. Sam frowned, "You really don't remember anything about last night?"

Dean dropped the paper to his lap in defeat, looking up to fix Sam with a serious stare,

"I remember the dude in the window all right," and he did, as clearly as if someone had taken a snapshot. Sam stepped out into the room, suddenly looking concerned again although there was a hint of curiosity playing across his expression too.

"I thought you said that just a hallucination,"

Dean pulled a face,

"It was, I just…it seemed real. That long white hair and those staring eyes…guy was just creepy."

The description stuck with Sam immediately,

"Did he have a stick?"

"What?" Dean paused, peering quizzically across at his brother like _he_ was the one running a fever. He replied slowly, stating the obvious, "I don't know Sam, he was standing in the window."

"What colour were his eyes?"

"White-ish," suddenly he sounded irritated, not liking being kept in the dark, "Sam – ,"

The sigh of relief caught him by surprise,

"He's a customer Dean,"

"What?"

"A customer. At the motel, like us. He's blind."

"And you know this because?"

Sam paused momentarily, clearing his throat awkwardly before responding,

"I knocked into him yesterday after I got us the room."

Dean smiled suddenly, amused by the revelation and quirking a teasing eyebrow in response,

"_You_ knocked into _him_? A _blind_man?" A snigger, "Nice going Sammy," the humour was not entirely returned Sam instead concentrating on getting himself together enough to present himself to the wider world, Dean continued regardless, "And what's this about you getting yourself case while I was out for the count? Thinking of going solo now? The prodigal son?"

Sam sighed again, noting the hint of hurt in Dean's voice despite the overwhelming amusement. Pulling on his jacket he turned to his brother holding out his hands in a placating gesture,

"I'm just asking some questions okay? It's probably nothing."

"Why'd you say that?"

Walking past the foot of Dean's bed to collect his boots, Sam tapped at the discarded printout,

"That's what this Professor says. 'Underlying health conditions'."

"And since when do doctors know shit?" It wasn't the most poetic way of putting it but it was Dean's form of a pep talk nonetheless and it made Sam smile, mildly touched.

"Yeah," he was ready to go, pulling the drapes part open and squinting as shafts of early morning light spilt in like a tidal wave of brightness. It never failed to amaze him just how quickly the sun came up and judging from Dean's groan and backwards collapse into the pillows with an arm over his eyes, his thoughts followed the same line, although he seemed far from pleased by the new morning.

He was starting to feel bad again Sam could tell, the progressively scratching voice, the periodic snuffling that ricocheted into his chest and brought on the same bubbling coughing fit that had been going on for days, the red itchy eyes and the constant unsteadiness on his feet. Passing the dresser Sam paused to hand Dean the medicine,

"Here,"

"Oh good," came the deeply sarcastic reply as Dean raised his elbow a fraction to peer at the offering, "For a minute I was afraid you'd forgotten that."

"It'll help Dean," Sam responded flatly, feeling a sudden sense of deja vu and moving forward to help Dean back into a reluctant sitting position, waiting for a sudden series of coughs to stop,

"Not freezing my ass off will help Sam, can't you shut the damn window?"

The hand that clapped to Dean's forehead made him jump as he examined the bottle in his hands, the cool touch of fingers on his skin sending an involuntary shiver through his body, lancing over ever inch of him and making his head pound. Somewhere above him Sam sighed regretfully,

"Maybe later."

His tone gave no room for debate and sighing in defeat Dean set about trying to twist the cap off the medicine, gritting his teeth as his fingers slipped painfully across the plastic ridges, unable to grip it firmly enough. He could feel Sam's eyes burning a hole in the top of his head but he tried to ignore it. After all, it was just a damn bottle. He wasn't going to let a bottle get the better of him.

He yelped as his fingers skidded across the surface again, his palm starting to tingle at the repeated attempts, his skin already tender enough as it was. Sam's hands slid into view instantly twisting the cap off with frustrating ease and handing it back.

"You going to be okay?"

He'd known that was coming.

"Yes Sam."

"I'm gonna grab breakfast while I'm out. Feel like anything?"

The moment Dean screwed his face up they both knew for sure that he really was ill,

"No."

Sam nodded, he'd get him a drink instead. Something fizzy with lots of colourings and additives, he knew how to make his brother happy. Dropping the remote beside Dean's hand and propping another bottle of water on the beside table Sam gave him a final appraising look, noting the plastic spoon still sitting in Dean's hand, the medicine bottle hovering unconvincingly above it,

"You are going to have some of that aren't you?"

Dean didn't bother looking up, a hint of irritation flashing across his face,

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Stalling."

"Bite me Sam."

Heaving a sigh Sam rolled his eyes, grinning fondly as he turned towards the door,

"I'll be about an hour okay? Two at the most. Call me if you need anything. _Anything_, Dean."

"Yeah, yeah," came the reply, about three octaves lower than usual as he concentrated on tilting the bottle excruciatingly slowly towards the spoon. Sam stood in the doorway for a second watching him and then finally gave his head one last shake and stepped out into the parking lot, knowing exactly what would happen the second he shut the door.

He wasn't wrong.

As the lock clicked into place, Dean dropped the spoon and pushed the bottle sideways onto the bedside table before flopping back into the pillows and smiling. There was no way he was taking any of that shit again. No way in hell.

And the beauty of it was that Sam would never have to know.

Genius.

* * *

Just a gentle filler chapter that one, we're picking up the pace from the next one on!


	5. Five

**V.**

His timing – depending on which way you wanted to look at it – was either perfect or regrettable, the wake just starting to get underway as he pulled the Impala up to the kerb and joined the other black-clad mourners trailing across the dewy lawn clutching cakes and lashings of casserole. It was only thanks to the suit half-thrown onto the backseat that he looked even suitably dressed at all, even if he was going to have to be careful not to accidentally pull out the federal badge instead of his keys.

Clearing his throat awkwardly and slamming the car door with a squeal, Sam dropped into the sombre little line with what he hoped was a funereal-enough expression, following in the tread of a middle-aged woman wearing inappropriate footwear and sinking into the turf whilst trying to hold aloft a tray of vol-aux-vents. Sensing his 'in' Sam hurried to help, taking the snacks smoothly and offering her his other arm,

"Here," he smiled, watching manicured nails wrap around his suit in gratitude as a mildly-startled face looked up in surprise,

"Oh, thank you,"

"Not at all, at times like this we all need to look out for one another," It was typical sentimental-drivel, but in the sombre atmosphere of the impending wake it worked wonders, earning him an intrigued if not slightly coy smile from the woman for whom age was beginning gather crow's feet in the corners of her eyes and turn already pale hair white. She squeezed his arm appreciatively,

"I expect you think I'm wearing silly shoes," she offered with a short laugh watching closely for his expression. It didn't falter.

"Not at all," as they reached the firmer footing of the gravel driveway Sam unwrapped the woman's arm from his, holding her hand until he was sure she was going to balance and keeping the tray of food firmly in hand. Absently he wondered about sneaking a few into his pocket for Dean but he dismissed the thought just as quickly, the last thing he wanted to be cleaning up later was vol-aux-vent vomit.

"You knew Jocelyn?"

It took a second for him to realise that the woman was speaking to him and he looked across, trying to hide his surprise from the prying blue eyes,

"Yes," he lied quickly, no longer as disconcerted as he had initially been that deception came so easily to him. It was for the greater good after all, a necessary evil.

"_How_, exactly?" she pressed, eyes travelling up and down his figure as she clearly tried to work out the relationship between the tall handsome young man and the deceased. Sam's mind quickly skimmed over the facts. Jocelyn Williams had been in her thirties, a teacher who'd moved to the town three years ago. She was roughly over ten years older than himself, which meant the maths worked out just right for his first choice of lie.

"She was my teacher."

"Oh?" he realised instantly that he'd made some mistake, "I thought Jocelyn was a preschool teacher?"

"Private tuition," he fired back quickly, trying to sound off-hand and throwing in a shrug, "I always struggled with English and Miss Williams was trying to pay her way through college."

It was feasible enough and although the blue eyes still sparkled – presumably over her own personal interpretation of the words 'private tuition' – the woman nodded acceptingly, reaching out to take his arm again as they mounted the sturdy wooden steps up onto the porch and out of the grey drizzle.

Standing on the front doorstep was an older woman, clearly the deceased's mother, supported by a younger relative and wiping at her eyes with a handkerchief as she made an effort to greet each individual mourner. Suddenly and as he always inevitably did, Sam felt horribly awkward about interrupting such a private occasion of shared grief and even worse about lying. His arm-hugging friend took the lead however, extracting her hand and approaching the older woman with out-stretched arms,

"Sheila," she soothed sympathetically, wrapping the tear-streaked senior in a hug and making a comforting clucking noise that briefly filled the place of words, "I'm so sorry."

The older woman nodded her response, squeezing shut her eyes as another tear trickled down already-wet cheeks,

"Thank you for coming Ruth," she whispered in as much of a voice as she could muster before being released from the hug and stepping back with a steadying breath. Ruth turned towards Sam, still clutching the nibbles, pulling him forward with a vague grip on the sleeve of his suit,

"Sheila, this young man was one of Jocelyn's private pupils from when she was at college," he felt his heart grip abruptly at his lie being introduced to people who knew the victim so intimately and he tried not to look tense as he nodded at them. Sheila continued unawares, "I didn't catch your name…"

"Sam."

"Ah yes, well this is Sam, and Sam, this is Jocelyn's mother Sheila and her sister Angela."

He nodded awkwardly, still balancing the tray between his hands,

"I'm sorry for your loss."

It seemed a lot easier when Dean was there, especially since he had someone else to take the flack – even if Dean was not the world's most easy-going or sympathetic of people, especially when it came to grieving strangers. Sheila was looking at Sam curiously,

"Private pupils?" she repeated slowly. Time to test the lie with both feet.

"Yes, she was a student teacher at the time, she used to help me with my English," he paused uncertainly before smiling again, "She was a great help. I wouldn't have passed without her."

Thankfully Sheila's smile widened, although there still remained a flicker of uncertainty,

"She never mentioned private tuition,"

"I think she probably took pity on me."

Another more genuine smile followed by a sad, wistful look. _That sounds like Jocelyn_. Sam smiled again. He got the feeling Jocelyn had been a good person and the number of mourners streaming across the lawn and bustling about indoors certainly seemed to attest to the fact too.

"How did you hear about…" It was Angela, pausing as the reality of the words became too much. Sam hurried to fill her in,

"We kept in touch on the internet. I read it on her facebook profile."

That much was true, he'd certainly tracked down her social networking sites for clues and judging by the way Angela nodded it was obviously her who had put up the announcement. He was back in the game again.

"Well, thank you for coming specially Sam," Sheila sighed, gripping his free hand with such grateful ferocity that he suddenly felt like a complete bastard.

"I wouldn't have missed it."

A _complete_ bastard.

Behind them more visitors were starting to queue up patiently, each waiting to pay their own respects to the family and so Sam let Ruth take him by the sleeve again and lead him into the house, guiding him into the front room and towards a large table spread with food. There was already a plate of vol-aux-vents occupying the space but with a quick look around Ruth whipped it up and threw him a wink,

"These are Hillary's. Everyone knows Hillary can't cook for toffee. I'll take these into the kitchen. Set mine down just there."

He did as he was told, stifling a smile. So much money in these well-to-do suburban houses and so little to do but bitch and back stab. It made him glad of a life on the road. Her absence also gave him the chance to have a quick glance around the room, taking in a plain but cosy interior, full of small trinkets, photos and mementos. A teaching degree hung in pride of place above the fire. Certainly nothing stood out, but then again he didn't expect it to. Nothing in life was ever that simple.

"Dreadful isn't it?"

He turned in surprise as Ruth reappeared at his elbow holding out a glass of wine for him and shaking her head sadly, "So much promise and then dead at thirty-four from the flu of all things."

Time to do some digging.

"Had she been ill before?"

"No!" it came out almost shrilly in testament to Jocelyn's otherwise obviously stellar health, "Not at all. She was as fit and healthy as anyone. The papers have been saying things about a heart murmur, but Sheila denies it. Jocelyn had a full medical only last year when she joined the school. Some strange policy of theirs or something – you know what these expensive places are like – anyway, nothing wrong with her then."

And as tragic as that was for Jocelyn's family it did lend further fuel to the fire of Sam's possible case. He tried to sound casual,

"Perhaps it wasn't an ordinary case of the flu?" he offered, thinking back to the woman at the motel desk and getting only a snort of derision from Ruth for his troubles,

"Well I saw her the day before she died and all she had then was a snuffle. Congestion, bit of a cough, that type of thing. I bumped into her at the store and she was well enough to be up and about then."

"Nothing unusual about her at all?"

The question prompted a narrow-eyed stare from Ruth and for a second Sam was convinced he'd gone too far. It took him a second to realise that far from being suspicious, it was a look of thoughtfulness,

"You know, now you mention it she did have a bit of an…episode, if you like."

Sam's turn to narrow his brows,

"What kind of episode?"

"Well…" pausing, deep in thought as she tried to recollect the moment, Ruth tipped her head sideways for some sort of clarity, "We met this strange little man. Bumped into him actually. He was just staring at Jocelyn although I could have sworn he was blind – ,"

Sam's heart lurched abruptly at the description, eyes opening wide in shock. Blind? _No, it couldn't be_. He tried to keep calm but as he turned towards Ruth he knew his questions were going to sound weird,

"Did he have a beard? Carry a stick?"

She frowned right on cue,

"Y – yes. How did you know that?"

_Oh god_. _What if –_

"Ruth, I – ," he didn't need to finish, didn't need to make up an excuse to leave her company because at that moment a woman walked out of the kitchen with her head held high and the original plate of vol-aux-vents in her hand. Ruth's face clouded over instantly,

"Why of all the – !"

She'd stormed off for the buffet table before he'd even had time to blink and it allowed him the chance to turn and head back for the front door, urgency carrying him there twice as fast as he'd arrived. Angela was still there, the guests down to a mere trickle as the majority began to mingle inside out of the weather.

"Angela?"

She turned towards him in surprise, her attentions elsewhere as she gazed out sadly across the lawn,

"Yes? Sam, wasn't it?"

He ignored the question,

"Did Jocelyn have any hallucinations before she died?" It was a blunt question, he knew that, but he also knew it needed to be asked. Angela frowned,

"Excuse me?"

"Jocelyn," he repeated, "When the flu got worse, did she have any hallucinations at all?"

The amazement was clear,

"How did you – ?"

"I need to know. Please, it's important."

For a moment Angela simply studied his face, confusion written across her entire expression. After a moment wrestling with her conscience however she let out a sigh, obviously trusting whatever it was she saw in him.

"Yes. Although until then she'd seemed fine… I mean a bit stuffed up, but otherwise fine."

"What did she see?"

"She saw – ," letting out a laugh part-humour and part-despair, Angela shook her head, struggling with the memory, "She said she saw a man in the window. Long hair, white eyes…she said he was watching her, just…staring."

"And there was no one there?"

"Not that I could see."

Abruptly tears came to her eyes and she wiped them away quickly, wiling herself to stay strong. Sam

nodded gently, swallowing,

"Thank you,"

And he meant it, because suddenly he had a sneaking suspicion about what they were dealing with and it wasn't a blind man. It was a case and more importantly than that, it had already sets it sights on its next victim.

He needed to get back to the motel.

* * *

Dum, dum, dum…I think we all know what this means!


	6. Six

**VI.**

There was nothing on the TV. Nothing, nada, zilch, zip. Except for some crappy nineties made-for-television movie that he'd flicked onto nearly an hour ago and suddenly found himself unable to turn off despite a seemingly endless tale of affairs, domestic abuse and scene after scene of big-haired women crying hysterically into the arms of on-off love interests who, in truth could have done with a more attentive casting process. He didn't particularly sympathise with any of the characters, or much care what happened to them in the end but for some reason he was still glued. He put that down to the medicine…the medicine he hadn't taken. _Damn_.

It was still freezing, in fact if anything it seemed colder than before and his suspicions were confirmed as he glanced out of the window watching the first flakes of snow begin to drift softly past the glass to pepper the parking lot. Perfect, snowed in to boot. Didn't his week just keep getting better and better.

Letting out an angry sigh and wrestling his feet free of the bedclothes with some difficulty, Dean swung his feet down onto the carpet again, for the second time that day checking his strength before standing up slowly. His vision still swayed from side to side like a weeble wobble and he tried hard to ignore the dangerous shake in his legs as he straightened up, instead concentrating on the handholds that would get him safely to the window and back again; the dresser, the edge of Sam's bed, the table and then the ledge of the sill.

It was slow going, although without Sam hovering nearby Dean felt more content to go at a snail's pace, the pretence gone once he was on his own and free to look as crappy as he felt. He'd gotten almost halfway across the room before he realised that setting off in the first place had been a bad idea, suddenly regretting not taking the medicine when Sam had dropped it into his lap. At the very least it might have helped with the dizziness.

He'd just reached the table and was pausing for the final push towards the window when his phone rang. The harshness of the sound making him jump as it invaded the monotonous drone of the television and filled the room with lively melody. Dean let out a growl of frustration, leaning his weight heavily against the back of one of the chairs and casting across to where his phone vibrated against the surface of the bedside table with a sense of urgency.

It was Sam of course, he knew that and the knowledge made him half want to ignore the call altogether, he'd got that far after all and Sam would hardly have wanted him traipsing backwards and forwards answering calls. He wouldn't have wanted him on his feet at all for that matter, but in spite of that Dean knew he had to answer because if he didn't his little brother would instantly assume he was in some sort of catatonic coma and drop whatever he was doing to get back, probably driving the Impala like a madman in the process. Not good.

Pushing himself away from the chair with what was left of his energy, Dean began the precarious stagger back towards his bed, willing his feet to carry him faster across the carpet and frustrated by his own slow going. Inevitably the ringing stopped seconds before he reached it, fingers so close that he could practically feel the vibrations.

"Damn it!"

As soon as he'd cursed he'd wished he hadn't, as the words caught fast in his throat and released a fierce bout of coughing that made him bend over, tears streaming from his eyes, the cold air scratching at his already painful throat. He was a complete invalid and the damn breeze wasn't helping either.

The last few feet to the window were completed in a speedy stagger, Dean landing against the window with a bang as he gasped for breath against the continued coughing. He'd reached his goal but as he continued to struggle against his own lung capacity he found he couldn't properly reach up to shut the damn thing. Typical. He could have cried. Could have, if a face suddenly pressed against the other side of the glass hadn't made him jump in fright and sent him stumbling backwards into Sam's bed with a heavy creak of springs.

_Jesus._

It was creepy guy again, the blind man Sam had knocked into on their first night and Dean's otherwise 'flu-induced' apparition. He was still weird though and as the added shock of his appearance combined with the still rumbling coughing fit, Dean began to struggle for air.

Abruptly the face spun in the direction of the bed, pale skin pressed so close to the pane that one cheek flattened against the glass. The hair still hung in wet mats across the brow, but not even they could disguise the almost white stare of the eyes, boring in through the window, unblinking and wide as saucers.

Dean watched him unmoving, confused beyond belief. They'd met some strange people in their time but this guy took the prize. Just a loser, nothing special about him and yet something wasn't quite right – aside from the whole Peeping Tom thing that was. It took him a second longer to realise what it was.

He wasn't breathing. Blind guy wasn't breathing. He was pressed right up next to the glass, lips almost touching it and yet there was nothing, no condensation, no breath catching on the air. Not a sign. Which meant…it wasn't alive. _Oh crap_.

As Dean's breath hitched in his throat the head snapped round again, hands pressing to the glass as if the long nails could break through it. They couldn't and suddenly the fingers were inching sideways, along the glass, along the windowsill and towards the door. The doorknob began to rattle almost instantly and as his heart started to pound Dean struggled onto his side, sinking into the folds of the bed and he struggled to right himself. To his side the phone started to ring again, but he didn't have to time to answer it, his choice a simple one between conversing with Sam and getting himself armed. He took the latter, rolling onto the floor and gasping as the impact drove what little air there was from his lungs.

Their weapon bag lay in the corner beside the dresser and he began to crawl towards it pitifully, casting a look backwards as a sudden thumping at the door made it shake visibly. The damn thing was trying to bust its way in.

"Can't catch a break," he mumbled with a gasp, the humour more to keep his spirits up in the face of his odds rather than an actual observation, although it worked both ways.

Half-dragging himself the final foot and ignoring the sensation of carpet burns on his tender skin, Dean reached out a hand for the bag, pulling it close and again grappling with the zipper. Why in the hell had Sam done the thing back up?

"Son of a – ,"

As sound was suddenly replaced by a high-pitched whistling in his head, Dean had to resort to feeling the ground vibrating underneath him to judge whether the thing was still pounded at the door or not, rolling his eyes in wry amusement. Hell of a time for his ears to pack up. His fingers fumbled desperately inside the bag, feeling across cool for metal for something, _anything_. He was too deep to be fussy and as his hand closed around the handle of a gun he pulled it free, wrenched back the hammer and rolled onto his back, turning it towards the room.

He was in for a hell of a shock.

The thing was in the room with him, the door hanging wide open as the figure loomed large, one clean sweep swiping away the gun and sending it crashing into the TV screen with a hail of sparks and glass. Yeah, _hell_ of a time for his ears to pack up.

As his eyes followed the path of the gun, brain struggling to follow the pace of events and body trying to find the strength to fight, hands shot down to grab up handfuls of his shirt, bunching skin with it and drawing a hiss of pain that seemed to excite the blind man-come-crazy even more. It was strong too, for something that took the form of an old man, hauling Dean onto weak legs and letting him dangle puppet-like in mid air, too weak to even take his own weight. It slammed him backwards into the wall with a crash but Dean barely even felt the impact as his vision started to cloud, his head bouncing limply off the wall and flopping forward so that he was staring at his own toes.

The grip was still on his shirt and he weakly rose hands in an attempt to try and fight back, only managing to wrap them around icy cold wrists and barely even having the strength to keep them there. He was in big trouble and this time it was no illusion.

He winced as the sensation of nails digging into his skin drifted briefly to the forefront of the little pain he felt, managing to lift his eyes up enough to see the face. It was leaning into him progressively closer and he blinked, trying to work out if he was seeing things as the teeth lengthened into thin serrated blades, a long tongue lancing out from between them and curling towards him. He screwed his face up in groggy defiance, trying to pull back as the jaws opened wide and a strangely bright light started to shine out from deep down in the unearthly throat, drawing his attention, and his energy into the abyss.

It was a strange feeling, having the life drawn out of him, almost like his conscious thought was being pulled out through the front of his head, a bizarre sensation as the fringes of his vision fuzzed and blackened. His hands slid from the wrists to hang limply by his sides and as he began to slip under he managed a silent snort to himself, full of twisted humour.

_All those years learning how to defend myself and I go and get killed when I'm too weak to fight. There's irony._

Only it wasn't funny and suddenly it started to hurt, like he was being wrung clean, his body shaking under the intensity as he gasped for breath.

"No!"

His hearing came back at exactly the same moment the voice echoed around the room, loud, shot-through with anger and so welcomingly familiar that he could have grinned.

_Nice timing Sammy._

Instantly the nails pulled back from his skin and although he couldn't see it through the waves of blackness, he could feel the sensation of being sucked dry stop too, could feel the thing twist around into the room. The only problem for Dean however was that it turned out the nails had been the only thing keeping him upright and, newly weakened and without support, his legs buckled underneath him and he collapsed to the floor in a heap.

Sam watched him fall in open-mouthed horror, eyes briefly moving from the snarling creature before him to his brother lying propped and semi-conscious against the wall, small bloody nail-marks visible on his t-shirt. His attentions quickly flicked back to the creature again and he couldn't stop the murderous rage that began to build up in his body. His gun was clutched in one hand but before he even had time to raise it and take aim the thing suddenly screamed. A high-pitched wail that made the bulbs rattle in the lamps.

Sam slammed hands to his ears in response, squeezing his eyes shut against the shrill pitch that threatened to bust his eardrums altogether, barely noticing as the monster bounded past him out of the door and away, as agile as a spirit. Barely had the ringing stopped than Sam was following after it, skidding out onto the concrete and casting from left to right in confusion. It was gone, more than that it had vanished. He grit his teeth in frustration letting out a silent curse and swinging his arm in anger as if contemplating smashing the gun into the ground. He wasn't, that wouldn't have helped and abruptly he remembered the greater concern. Dean.

He bolted back into the room at once, just having enough sense to haul the door shut behind him. It wouldn't close properly with the lock busted in, but it swung in enough to keep some of the chill out.

Dean was lying where he'd been left, slumped against the wall like a rag doll, head hanging so far forward that his chin was resting against his chest. He wasn't breathing.

"Oh god," Sam whispered, the words catching in his throat, "Dean?" He dropped to his knees beside him checking for the rise and fall of the chest and seeing none through frantic eyes. Being careful to avoid the puncture marks of the nails, Sam grabbed the sleeves of his brother's t-shirt and shook him hard, "Dean!"

A spluttered gasp interrupted his panic and abruptly Dean's eyes flew open, the head snapping up so suddenly that only the intervention of Sam's hand stopped it crashing backwards into the wall. As the gasp turned into a cough Sam let loose a sigh of relief, tipping his already off-balance brother towards him into an awkward embrace. Dean didn't respond, probably partly because he was still busy spluttering and most definitely due to the impromptu syrupy-ness of the situation, still he let Sam do it all the same, obviously sensing his need for reassurance.

"Hey Sam?" he began after a while, feeling the arms unwrap from the crushing grip around his head. His voice sounded shaky, back to being croaky again,

"Yeah?" Sam was all alertness, eyes watching him expectantly. He was ready to do whatever was asked of him, "Are you okay?"

Dean watched him for a second, glazed eyes blinking more often than they should have been and his face a grey mask of weary exhaustion. Damn flu.

"Can we shut the window now?"

* * *

I'm not too cruel, he's okay! For now…(fine, so maybe I'm a little bit cruel!)


	7. Seven

**VII.**

The window was closed, and if Dean had any continuing say in the matter that's how it would remain.

Sam sat watching him from the laptop, absently chewing on his thumbnail as he watched his brother's chest rise and fall under the covers, the elder sound asleep and apart from worn out, no worse the wear for the unwelcome intrusion. Sam on the other hand was a wreck, knee bouncing restlessly up and down, unable to properly concentrate and the same image of Dean flopping limply to the ground playing over in his mind. It was _his_ fault, Dean had almost died because of _him_. Dean had known – even in the grip of flu – that what he'd seen was not natural and yet Sam had assured him otherwise. _Nice going._

As soon as he'd been sure the danger had passed, Sam had helped Dean back into bed, covering him up with as many layers as possible as the heat of fever died away in favour of the cold grip of shock, not helped by the virtual gale blowing in through the open door. That had been his next job once Dean was settled, fixing the lock. He didn't fancy going to the desk to explain what had happened and thankfully with the help of the tools in the trunk of the Impala, he hadn't had to.

Dean had been persuaded, still complaining, to take some more medicine and even as he'd been drifting off in exhaustion he'd been repeating the same sentence over and over,

"Not your fault Sam. Not your fault."

Even with half of his energy reserves zapped clean out of him, Dean still knew his little brother better than anyone. It hadn't stopped the guilt though and as he sat at the table researching everything he could think of, Sam's gaze still slid frequently towards the sleeping form in the bed, listening to the gentle sounds of his breathing and reassuring himself that the chest was still moving up and down, up and down, up –

"Sammy," came a sudden croak, barely travelling across the dimly lit room but at the same time like music to his ears, "Stop watchin' me."

Sam sighed, trying to hide the grin and sound controlled,

"I was just checking – ,"

"Well don't…freak," letting out a long exhalation and turning onto his side pressing deeper into the folds of the pillow, Dean raised a hand to push down the covers, exposing his shoulders and opening his eyes with a vague squint, "How long've I been out?"

Sam could have told him down to the second,

"Four hours,"

"What? Why'd you let me sleep so long?"

_He_ was pissed? Unbelievable.

"Dean," Sam started in response, trying to sound reasonable but hearing his tone pitch with disbelief, "You just got the life half-ripped out of you. You need to rest."

"Not when there's some ugly on the loose," came the simple reply as Dean battled himself into a sitting position. Sam crossed the distance to help on instinct, rearranging the pillows and using a hand to keep Dean upright as he sat forward to make himself comfortable, "Any luck on that yet?"

"Some," Sam told him, passing across the bottle of water with a _drink it_ look before turning to grab a handful of notes from the table, "I think it's a vampire."

Dean's brows crumpled together in abrupt confusion, his reply less than convinced,

"Vampires drink blood Sam, not life force."

"This one's a Jiang Shi. It's Chinese."

"Looked American to me."

"No, I mean…" pausing to find the words for the description, Sam instead turned round a piece of paper, the sheet covered in a print-out sketch of a thin man with long white hair and serrated teeth. As Dean blinked in recognition Sam continued, "…it's called Chinese because it more closely resembles Asian vampire lore instead of Western. Chinese vampires aren't actually vampires at all."

Dean's frown deepened, although this time with a weary _get to the point Sam _sigh.

"But you just _said_ – ,"

"I know, but it's actually more like a spirit…or to be exact a reanimated corpse."

"You mean a zombie?"

Sam ignored him,

"Jiang Shi have usually suffered some form of violent death like murder or suicide, but instead of coming back like spirits and haunting the place where they died, they come back in their own bodies… provided they haven't already been buried."

"Man is _that_ screwed up," Dean croaked hoarsely, screwing up his eyes as Sam flipped on the bedside lamp and drew the curtains against the early onset of dusk, "And let me guess, they survive by feeding off the living?"

"Hence the vampire thing,"

"Great."

As he bustled about the room, checking the door lock for the fiftieth time since he'd mended it and earning another eye-roll from Dean, Sam picked up a further piece of paper and handed it over, pointing at a particular line of text and watching the attempted reading with a half-smile.

"It's the medical report on Tim Flannery, the first victim in town. It's been posted as an article in a medical journal, but get this," again Sam bent forward to run his finger across the relevant text, "It says that the patient experienced hallucinations, specifically of an old white haired man with cold eyes."

He sounded proud of himself and as Dean nodded in understanding he couldn't help but smile. Give him long enough and Sam could find the patterns in just about anything. He wasn't done either,

"And he's not the first, in the last six months there have been twenty-seven sudden flu-related deaths in the surrounding states. Now, fifteen of those were over seventy and so technically aren't that suspicious, but the other twelve were otherwise completely healthy."

"So, you think our vampire first showed up six months ago?"

"It fits."

"So why is it going after people who are sick? Easy targets?"

Sam shook his head,

"When a Jiang Shi comes back it's completely blind. The only way it can track people is by listening to them breathe. The heavier the better, which explains why it's targeting people who are sick. It's – ," he paused awkwardly, taking a breath, "It's why he came after you…he could hear you coughing through the window."

"Huh," Dean snorted dryly, "If I'd have known I was advertising myself as the all-day special I'd have kept it down."

Instantly Sam's face clouded over. _It wasn't your fault Dean, it was mine. I wanted the window open._

"That's not funny."

"It's a little funny," as Sam's expression remained severe however, Dean let out a sigh and moved onto the next question grinning as the chance for a teasing nickname presented itself, "So, how do we kill it then, Grinch."

"Bullet and then your everyday salt and burn."

"Well at least it's easy enough to kill, got any ideas on how we're going to draw it out?" Dean didn't wait for a reply, although the silence suggested there wasn't one, "Because while you've been standing there like the encyclopedia of world vampire history, I've had one of my own."

As he spoke he stretched out his arms in front of him, working the muscles and smiling with grim pleasure at the stiffness and tension that radiated along them. Like an elastic band tensing ready for action. It felt good. Sam blinked at him meanwhile, a little surprised and suddenly apprehensive,

"You have? What is it?"

"Me."

Sam frowned, confusion playing across his face. He didn't follow.

"You? What about you?"

"We use me as bait."

"_What_?!"

"Think about it Sam – ," as he opened his mouth to go into the hard-sell he'd known he was going to have to make to get his brother on board, Dean was promptly interrupted, the conversation seemingly over before it had begun as Sam glared at him hard, eyes shining with anger, horror and fear.

"Dean. No."

He punctuated each word slowly and carefully, loading each one with as much authority as he could. No way in hell was he going to let that thing anywhere near his brother again. No way. Unfortunately, his brother was the only one he hadn't banked on needing to convince,

"Then what?" Dean challenged hotly, tone no less defiant for the crackle in his throat, "We let this zombie son of a bitch go after someone else? What if it's a kid next time Sam? It's flu season, he could go after anyone, we lose him now we might never find him again. He's already come after me once – ,"

"Exactly!" Sam shot back, incredulous, "And nearly killed you! You want to put yourself through that again?"

Suddenly a hint of a smirk flashed across Dean's face,

"Well, now that I've got my trusty sidekick to back me up…" he let the rest of the sentence hang and Sam sighed despite himself, knowing that no matter how long he battled, he would have to give in to Dean's plan at some point. Partly because he didn't have any better ideas himself, but mainly because he always gave in to Dean's plans, had done ever since they were kids. Even when the potential for disaster outweighed the potential for success, he would always trust Dean's instincts – against his better judgement. He shook his head in a final attempt at dissuasion,

"It's dangerous."

"Come on, it's just another day at the office."

"You're ill,"

"So you keep saying."

"…I can't believe I'm going to agree to this."

A wide smile beamed back across the room at him, Dean itching for the hunt despite his less than stellar condition. Sam could almost see the twinkle in his eyes. He was ready and reaching out a still shaking hand he clapped his younger brother weakly on the shoulder.

"That's my boy."

He was crazy. They both were.

* * *

So what do you think of ghoul of the week this time? I kinda had fun looking it up and stealing the bits that worked for me!

Just wanted to _again_ say thank you for my reviews! They've all been so lovely that I've been positively blushing with pride! Hope the rest lives up to expectations!


	8. Eight

**VIII.**

However cold it had seemed inside the motel room, outside was far, far worse and deteriorating with each passing minute. The icy cold wind that had been gently blowing across the parking lot half an hour before had suddenly turned gale-force, bringing with it flurries of snow that were beginning to obscure the horizon. Despite the fact that the weather had been fairly constant for the past two days, the second they had stepped outside things had almost inevitably nose-dived. Perfect.

Amongst the falling flakes, huddled under a mountain of layers and still struggling to keep out of the chill sat Dean, occupying the solitary picnic table set up on the verge of grass that separated the parking lot from the road in some sort of vague gesture at a family-friendly feel.

Everything about him was cold, from the tip of his nose to his raw cheeks and right down to his tingling toes, slowly being buried underneath the rising drift of snow. His breath blew out in long curls of mist before him evaporating into the blizzard in an instant, and as the icy flakes continued to drop onto his eyelashes, his lips and his damp hair, he pulled his arms closer and tried to think warm thoughts.

It didn't work.

Thirty feet away, pressed against one wall of the motel and blinking hard in an attempt to see through the worsening conditions, Sam stood poised for action, a loaded gun clenched tightly in his fingers and his eyes never leaving the huddled form that stood out dark against the white.

He'd made Dean put on a hooded sweatshirt over his t-shirt and then a heavy jacket with a hood of its own that he seemed to be refusing to put up despite the steady hail of snow. He knew why, Dean argued that it impaired his vision and ever the professional he liked to be able to see clearly on all sides. It wasn't Dean who needed to be seeing properly at that moment however, it was him. What Dean _should_ have been doing was keeping warm.

As a painful sounding cough rang out from the benches, Sam's face slid into a wince and he glanced down momentarily to look at his watch. He liked to think the coughing was for the benefit of the Jiang Shi but seeing how crap his brother had looked as he'd stood shakily in the motel doorway dressed up like an Eskimo he somehow doubted it. Thirty-five minutes they'd been out there, thirty-five minutes in which they'd caught nothing more than what would probably turn out to be a couple of extra days on the sick bed. Another twenty-five minutes and, as per agreed, Sam was pulling the plug on operation crazy.

Blinking furiously as a snowflake ploughed straight into his eye, Sam tried to keep his watering vision turned upwards focussing entirely on Dean who seemed to have burrowed his way even deeper into his coat and was starting to slump over the tabletop. Sam heaved a sigh. It was no good. Agreement or no agreement he was getting him back inside before he caught pneumonia or knowing their luck something entirely worse.

Stepping out of his hiding place and slipping the gun surreptitiously up his sleeve, Sam pulled up the collar of his coat and set out across the parking lot towards the grass, heavy boots stamping a determined path through the pristine carpet of white that coated the tarmac.

For the past twenty-five minutes not a single vehicle had passed them, not on the motel lot and not on the road beyond, so it came as something of a surprise that Sam suddenly found himself temporarily blinded by the lights of a service truck pulling in past him and seemingly still set for business despite the weather. He paused to let it drive by, watching as the snow covered cab highlighted just how dirty the side panels were. It was funny how things that usually looked so clean could seem so impure in a heavy a snowfall.

"Sammy!"

As his eyes watched the tyres track through the snow, a frown rippled across Sam's brow. He could have sworn he'd heard Dean, although as he continued to let the truck roll past he was greeted only by silence and the whistling wind.

He stepped off the sidewalk the moment the vehicle had slid by, eyes reaching up again to the bench sitting on the grass. His heart froze almost instantly at the sight that greeted him, or rather the sight that didn't.

It was empty. Dean was gone.

_Oh god, oh god. _

He had been calling after all.

For a full couple of seconds Sam simply stood frozen to the spot in horror, eyes peering desperately through the swirling flakes for any sign of his brother. Even the sight of him slumped on the ground would be better than him having just vanished, but even as he scanned the horizon for the familiar figure he knew it was pointless. Dean wouldn't have just left, not without saying something, not willingly. The only thing Sam was doing by standing statue-still and open-mouthed was wasting time.

Running full pelt across the tarmac he barely avoided the truck a second time as it swept in a wide circle around the parking lot, not even bothering to look up as it skidded to a standstill a few feet from him with it's horn blaring. All he was focused on was the empty bench and where in the hell Dean had gone.

Climbing the verge in three long strides Sam skidded to a halt, eyes frantically taking in the signs scattered across the snow like a story of what had happened.

It didn't look good.

The first thing Sam saw was the footprints, one clear print threading up onto the grass from the sidewalk and accompanied by a less distinguishable print that trailed for longer in the snow. A limp foot, one of the reasons that Jiang Shi's were also known as hopping corpses, sometimes the eyesight wasn't the only thing that got messed up in the transformation from dead to undead. It was their vampire all right.

The trail of footprints led up to the table, where there was a large round print in the snow, deep from a heavy impact. Dean's shoulders. Obviously the Jiang Shi had grabbed him from behind and toppled him backwards. Sam's jaw tightened involuntarily. Beside the imprint was more disruption in the snow, Dean trying to fight back.

It was the final track that interested him the most however, drag marks leading back down the slope and away across the sidewalk, the route as clearly defined in the snow as any trail of breadcrumbs or for that matter, M&Ms, Dean's own modern twist to the fairy tale.

Drawing out his gun again, Sam's brows slid close in undisguised fury.

The vampire was as good as dead.

* * *

Okay, okay, it's really short. BUT the next chapter is really long and I kind of wanted to break them up since they're from different perspectives. Anyhoo, just because it's short doesn't mean you lovely people get a break from reviewing!


	9. Nine

**IX.**

Dean slowly opened his eyes, the effort alone taking what little strength he still seemed to possess and using it up in an instant. His hands clung weakly to the neckline of the zipped-up coat which was pressing into his windpipe with a frighteningly suffocating intensity. Somewhere beyond his head the vampire was dragging him by the hood, long icy fingers curled around the material and using it to pull Dean's entire weight along the snowy ground.

The back of his jeans were soaked through from top to bottom, but he could barely feel it anymore as the constant grating motion of being hauled over hard ground began to turn him numb. His toes were probably still freezing cold but no he could no longer feel them. The Jiang Shi could have left them back at the picnic bench for all he knew or cared for that matter, his entire focus was on getting enough oxygen through to remain conscious.

It was his own fault of course, the whole stupid thing was his fault. He had been the one with the bright idea of drawing out the ugly with Winchester-bait in the middle of a blizzard, Sam had been far from happy. As usual.

Glancing up, Dean could just about make out their surroundings through the snowflakes that fell into his eyes with piercing cold. They'd turned off the main sidewalk into some sort of alleyway between tall brick-built industrial buildings. The ground abruptly became harder as they reached a patch of concrete the snow had not yet touched and their progress slowed just a little as the added friction suddenly made him a harder catch to haul along.

As the buildings started to close in closer around them, Dean reached up an arm to try and dislodge the icy hand knowing that the further they went into seclusion the closer he got to being dinner. He did _not_ want to be dinner. If he was ever going to go then it was going to be in style not lying slumped in an alley, the soaking wet and fevered prey of some blind soul-sucking undead vampire-wannabe. He had standards.

As his hand batted at the fingers, trying to dig a hold in them and simply sliding off the icy-cold skin, Dean had a sudden idea, a bolt of inspiration so obvious that he could have kicked himself for not thinking of it the moment he'd started to get dragged away. Being semi-conscious was no excuse at all.

Dropping his hold from the vampire's long nails, Dean's grip again went to the neck of the jacket, fingers this time finding out the top of the zipper, taut against the bulk of his weight. Getting out of a winter coat was often hard enough at the best of times, but when ill and under something of a time constraint it was going to be a bitch.

Using one hand to take his own weight and lift himself upright, he pulled down with the other frantically, tugging at the zipper and praying for it to move even a fraction. For the longest time it did nothing at all, then suddenly and just as his frustration levels were starting to spike uncontrollably, it gave way, opening up with a wave of air that poured in around his neck and down this throat like tiny icy knives. It wasn't exactly the welcome relief he'd been hoping for.

For a second Dean didn't move, struggling to readjust and checking to make sure the Jiang Shi hadn't caught on to what he was doing. The steady plod and the sensation of uneven ground underneath his legs assured him it hadn't and so as quickly as he could Dean unzipped the rest of the coat and slid out of the arms wholly onto the ground. The sudden sensation of being still again was unsettling and he lay panting on the concrete for a moment, catching his breath with one cheek pressed to the freezing earth.

The vampire noticed the shift in weight almost immediately and as it started to screech again Dean pushed himself onto his knees before rising as speedily as he could onto unsteady legs whilst at the same time trying to minimise the pitching in his head with long heavy breaths. That however, was just what the Jiang Shi was looking for and abruptly it was crossing the distance between them, blind white eyes open wide in rage and long fingernails pointed vice-like towards him.

Abruptly Dean held his breath, sucking in deeply and turning to take a wobbly step forward before his legs failed him completely and he planted sideways into the wall with a gasp at the harsh solidity of the impact. Again the vampire came for him, twisting its course at the renewed sound of ragged breathing and tipping its head from side to side like it was working off some sort of supernatural radar.

Dean didn't hang around to find out how accurate it was instead taking to his unsteady legs again and focusing on the end of the alley opening up into the blizzard that blew across the road beyond. If he could just get out there he would be able to draw Sam's attention. His brother couldn't be that far way, _wouldn't _be that far away. If he knew anything then he knew his Sam.

As it turned out however he didn't get that far, because as the breathing turned to chest-crushing gasps for air with every step he took, the Jiang Shi started to gain on him with an unnervingly certain turn of speed as its target began to show up clearer and clearer before it. It leapt when Dean was still twenty-feet from the mouth of the alley, taking them both down with a crash and burying Dean headfirst in the thin scattering of snow spread across the loose ground. For what felt like the thousandth time in God knew how many days, Dean again struggled to draw breath as he scrambled over onto his back. _Give me a break –_

But the break never came and instead he let out a sharp hiss, arching with pain as the Jiang Shi dropped it's weight down on top of him, pinning him to the ground. Its touch was colder than the snow, the iciness radiating down through his clothing and working its way across his hot tender skin. As it dropped a hand down towards him, Dean lifted his own, catching the vampire by the collar of its battered old shirt and pushing upwards from the throat. It countered the assault abruptly with one sharp cut to the elbow, riding out the wave of Dean's kicking legs with an intense gaze that centred squarely on the gasping breaths.

The first thing to make contact with Dean's face as the vampire lowered its head closer, was a lock of the long white hair, slapping damp across his cheek and joined by the rest of the matted tresses, each one caressing his skin like prying fingers and making Dean screw up his eyes in revulsion, trying to turn away. The death grip on his saturated sweatshirt held him firmly in place and as he looked up again into the cold unblinking eyes, he registered the open mouth, the serrated teeth and the orb of light starting to radiate out from the throat.

He was too late. It was dinnertime.

The strange sensation of having the energy drawn out of him seemed no less bizarre the second time around and it took only moments for his vision to begin to fray around the edges once more before…yep, there came the pain, a screaming in his ears that wailed on and on until his whole head seemed to buzz, until his vision flickered like bad satellite signal and his head felt like it was about to explode from the inside out. With his arms still pinned roughly to his side he was unable to even grip his forehead with them, his pain instead expressed in a series of deep gasps that radiated up from his diaphragm, each one a desperate plea for air but following so soon after one another that breathing in was rendered impossible. It was like he was drowning without water. He wasn't going to last for much longer.

"Hey!"

As a single syllable rolled around the alley, Dean felt a sense of relief wash over him in recognition of the cavalry. Dean knew what the '_hey'_was for, it was standard Winchester language used when they wanted to draw attention. It always worked and as the Jiang Shi looked up at the new arrival, Sam's tone wavered with emotion, the words forced out through teeth clenched tight with fury.

"Get away from my brother."

_Go, Sammy. Getting all territorial and…_

The gunshot that rang out a split second later made Dean jump and he stifled a groan as the weight of the vampire fell backwards across his legs and lay still and unmoving. That was something at least.

Then from somewhere above his head there came the unmistakeable sound of snow being compacted under the heavy tread of boots and Sam slid into view, covering the last foot on his knees in an all out skid. His face fell into Dean's line of vision with wide-eyed worry, his hair hanging past his cheeks as he lent forward, breathing heavily. His hands moved to grip firmly at the sweatshirt, fists bunching up balls of sodden material,

"Dean," he gasped out, the word only just audible over the buzzing that continued to fill Dean's entire brain. Instead of a response he simply groaned, raising his released hands and clamping them to either side of his head, twisting his upper body as far to the side as he could to relieve the ache in his back. Sam interpreted his movements instinctively, leaning forward to push the Jiang Shi roughly from his brother's legs allowing him to roll completely onto his right, forehead coming to rest against the material of his brother's jeans.

"Slower Dean," Sam instructed soothingly, meaning the breathing as the elder alternated between coughing and gasping, "You're going to hyperventilate."

_I wonder the hell why! _

If only he'd been able to form sentences…

Sam watched him closely, trying to stop the tremble of combined anger and relief that threatened to take hold of his fingers. He didn't want Dean to feel him shaking, didn't want Dean to have to take control of the situation as he would inevitably try to do if he thought Sam was struggling. Instead he swallowed the lump stuck in his throat and tried not to think about what had almost happened. Again.

"Deep breaths..."

Dean looked pale, deathly pale and Sam doubted lying on the snow in soaking wet clothes was helping any either. Still as the coughing subsided enough to allow Dean to regulate his breathing, the gasping thankfully dropped to manageable levels too. It had sounded like his lungs were going to explode.

As a hand rose upwards held out for help, Sam took a firm hold of it and helped to leaver his brother upright, one hand supporting his back and most of the weight as Dean limply flopped forwards. Rising into a squat Sam wriggled under one of Dean's arms and braced himself before rising to his feet, hauling his brother with him. Neither of them much wanted to stick around.

"Let's get you out of here," Sam whispered softly, watching as Dean's eyes flickered sideways towards the sprawled vampire lying in the snow like he'd been pushed from the top of a building, limbs twisted and flung outwards. Sam suppressed a grimace of anger and instead turned towards the mouth of the ally with small steps, only managing to shuffle half a foot before Dean suddenly stopped dead and pulled sideways.

"Dean!" As he wrenched himself free it was as much as Sam could do to stop them both piling into the wall, steadying himself with one hand while letting his brother's weight slowly inch against the brickwork, holding back a frown, "What are – ,"

"Burn't," came the response, low, painful and said in the beat between breaths. Sam's frown furrowed deeper, straining to make sense of the request,

"What?"

Leaning back against the wall Dean allowed his eyes a brief flicker skywards in a very familiar but silent form of sarcasm. He gestured with a heavy hand towards the Jiang Shi abandoned in the snow and tried again,

"_Burn it_,"

And suddenly Sam understood. _That_he could do, he'd had been planning to wait until he'd got Dean back into the warm but if his brother wanted to see an end to it then he was happy to oblige, making sure Dean was first securely propped against the brickwork before stepping back and pulling out the little container of lighter fluid he'd been saving for the big flame-off. The liquid trickled down onto the Jiang Shi's clothes with a splatter, droplets bouncing off the pale ghostly skin and running into the lines and creases until the corpse shone with moisture. A dusting of salt and then Sam added a match, breaking one from the little stub he'd picked up from the motel. Forget stealing shampoo and toiletries, the Winchester boys were all about the pyro.

The thing went up like an inferno, bursting into a sudden wall of flames so bright and hot that Dean winced and rose an arm to shield himself from the sudden intensity. Sam was beside him again in a flash, one arm steadying him as both watched the flames lick across the body in silence. Sam had the discarded coat tucked under his elbow, tying up the loose ends. The last thing they needed was to be traced back to a burning body in an alleyway. Their police files were colourful enough.

"You all right?" he asked suddenly, eyes never leaving the dancing flames. Dean managed a nod, succeeding in drawing his brother's attention from the gruesome spectacle raging beyond them.

"I will be,"

Neither of them doubted that and the assurance made Sam smile slightly,

"You scared the crap out of me you know,"

"Wasn't exactly a party over here either," came the reply, punctuated by gulps of air. Sam grinned teasingly, relishing the banter as a way for them to establish normality without the fussing Dean so hated.

"You should've been more careful."

"You've should've been paying more attention."

"It was your plan genius," Sam fired back gently, tightening his grip around Dean's arm as a sign for them to get moving. Accepting the help Dean let Sam take some of the weight as they stumbled across the snowy ground out onto the street, glancing left and right for any passers-by. Luckily it was deserted, the blizzard keeping most people indoors. Most sane people anyway. Sam urged them forward, "Come on," he sounded slightly out of breath and as they trampled across the snow Dean managed a wry snort, too quiet to be audible. _Join the club on that one._

Later Sam would go back and check their footprints had been covered by the snow, would check that any signs linking them to the smouldering remains were collected and disposed of. But for the moment he would tend to Dean, his first priority.

It was just as well his brother didn't get sick often, although for someone ill for only the third time in their life, he'd sure done it in style.

_A vampire?_

Sam grinned and shook his head wryly, letting out a sigh as the motel door fell into view beyond the raging white flakes.

…_only Dean._

* * *

So all's well that ends well, kind of. Just a final chapter to go now and then I release this story to the 'completed' files to join the others.

Before that though there's plenty of time to tell me what you thought of the big showdown! Don't be shy!


	10. Ten

**X.**

The room smelt of grease, the guilty-pleasure kind that came hand in hand with a large order of fast food and invariably led to heart conditions. To Sam however it meant one thing; after medicine, clean layers, warmth and nearly thirty-six straight hours of sleep, Dean's appetite was back and it was back with a vengeance.

Shiny grease-covered wrappers lay scattered across the sheets, the debris all that remained of the two double cheeseburgers with extra fries, pie _and_ the small mountain of fudge sauce-covered ice cream Dean had merrily ploughed through. He had even reached over absently during a soda-break in the course of his gorging and taken a handful of Sam's fries, adding them to the hefty food-pile ensconced in the gap between his crossed legs, eyes barely leaving the TV.

Sam had no idea what they were watching, or why Dean seemed so interested in a crappy nineties daytime movie which seemed to consist of little more than big hair and self-made emotional dramas. Still he'd practically jumped from the bed in delight as his flicking had uncovered the apparent gem and offered Sam a _so shoot me_ glance as he'd hidden the remote and settled back to watch. Sixty-seven minutes in and Sam was seriously starting to contemplate the challenge, or at least he would have been had Dean's rapt attention not been so bizarrely entertaining.

As a woman launched herself at one of the male leads, screaming hysterically and begging for another chance at…well, whatever the hell it was they'd been attempting – possibly some sort of dysfunctional relationship – Sam heaved a bemused sigh and watched as Dean's head swung his way accusingly,

"What's your problem?"

Sam waved a hand at the screen in response, a bewildered grin settling across his face,

"What's going on Dean?" he asked, turning towards his brother and noting the gaze still focused on the drama. Dean gestured towards it absently,

"Well Mindy and Derek used to be married until Mindy's brother-in-law Craig, who was Derek's best friend in college – ,"

"No," Sam interrupted quickly, keen to avoid the synopsis, "I mean what's going on with you? This is the sort of thing bored housewives watch before they pick the kids up,"

A flicker of amusement rippled across Dean's face and he turned towards his brother with a smirk,

"How would you know?"

Sam simply sighed listening to Dean drag the bottom of his coke, sucking the last few drops noisily up the straw until he was just pulling up air. He was going to make himself blue. In the silence that followed he could see Dean casting around from the corner of his eyes, watching his brother take in the room at a glance looking for something. He didn't even need to ask,

"Hey Sammy – ,"

Abruptly Sam's hand rose into view, offering across his own drink, barely touched. He tried to look peeved but in reality he was just grateful to see Dean so animated over food and liquid since for the past four days he'd had very little of either. If he'd wanted seconds Sam would gladly have agreed to go and get some. Luckily however the soda-fest seemed to be enough and shifting the assorted boxes, wrappers and cartons onto the floor with a kick of his feet, Dean settled back against the pillows and sighed deeply, full and contented.

As the couple on TV – the aforementioned Mindy and Derek Sam now realised – fell into a passionate embrace to the sound of a swelling orchestral piece, titles began to roll across the freeze frame and almost as abruptly Dean reached up and flicked the TV in standby. Apparently when it came to trashy daytime television even he had his limits. Derek and Mindy being pretty much it. The room fell into silence around them, only perforated by the blip of a police siren as a squad car raced past the motel on the road outside.

Sam had heard the latest from the woman at the desk when he'd gone to pay for an extra day that morning, her conspiratorial lean-and-whisper reaching new heights as he'd casually asked after the police commotion, fishing for any information. She'd beckoned him closer with a wave, glancing around suspiciously as if a cop might pop up from the pot plant and have her arrested for spreading official news. Sam had bit back a smile.

"Well I probably shouldn't tell you…" she'd begun hesitantly, watching him pay in advance for another twenty-four hours and pulling the cash from the desk so he couldn't change his mind, "…they found a body in the ally across the road."

Sam had tried to look surprised,

"Really?"

"And that's not all…" He'd raised his brows, _go on_, "…it had been burnt. Murder."

Murder? Was it even possible to murder someone who was technically already dead? He'd flashed the woman a quick look,

"Any ideas who it was? Who might have done something so…" _Brave? Helpful? Heroic?_ "…terrible?"

She'd indicated no, sighing and stepping back to punch the cash into the machine, offering a shrug,

"But then again who knows. World's a weird, weird place," he hadn't disagreed with that one, "I mean, take that fella who was hanging round here for example, you know, white hair, stick…the blind guy?"

Sam had cleared his throat, a brow rising in dry amusement,

"I might have run into him once or twice."

"Gone," she continued, as clearly as if he hadn't answered at all and shaking her head for emphasis, "Just appeared one day, wandering round like some poor little lost soul and then the next thing I know he's vanished, just upped and left. Still," she sighed, "Not that I mind so much. He was pretty creepy. Swear he was scaring away customers."

Or attacking them, Sam had thought wryly before smiling and changing the subject.

"Know any fast food places around here? My brother's got a craving for burgers."

That had been two hours before and Sam had arrived back from his burger-run to find Dean clearing out a box of cookies, the end of the packet to his mouth and one hand tapping out the remaining crumbs. Sam had blinked in confusion, pulling the keys out of the door and stepping into the room bewildered.

"Hey Sam!" Dean had chirped, sitting forward hopefully, "You get cheeseburgers? Tell me you got cheeseburgers."

"Err…yeah."

"Great!"

"Uh, Dean? Where'd you get those?"

"What?"

"Those," he'd gestured to the box and earned himself a sheepish grin,

"Oh, girl scout came round. Found a couple of coins rolled under the bed. You get pie?"

Sam had chuckled, putting down the bag and beginning to rummage through it,

"Yeah, I got pie," he'd replied, fishing it out before frowning thoughtfully, "You're telling me a girl scout was selling cookies at a motel?"

"Knocked on all the doors," Dean had shrugged, reaching out for the greasy box Sam had handed him, "They must be offering a trip somewhere cool this year," he'd grinned, "Playboy mansion maybe."

"They're kids Dean."

"It's got a zoo."

After that Sam had settled down on the bed beside Dean's and they'd both tucked into their burgers, upon which Dean had promptly stumbled upon Mindy and Derek and the impromptu torture had begun. In the silence of the present however, Sam was beginning to notice Dean's eyes drooping again, the head tilting sleepily to one side before righting itself as his older brother attempted to stay awake.

"You need anything?" Sam asked quietly, watching the head jerk upwards in surprise,

"Huh?"

Sam smiled,

"Do you need anything?"

Settling back with another sigh and pulling the blanket up close around his neck, Dean shook his head and shifted down across the mattress,

"Nah Sammy, I'm good."

By which he meant to say his little brother had _done_ good. He was full, sleepy and relaxed. The perfect combination. Sam caught his meaning with a smile, gently sliding off the bed to press a hand to Dean's forehead. The temperature was nearly back to normal.

"When I've shaken this thing," Dean muttered from below him, eyes closing wearily, "You're really going to have to stop touching me."

Sam snorted as he bent to collect up the trash littering the carpet around Dean's bed.

"Gladly."

"Perv," his new favourite word, followed by a laugh as Dean sleepily managed to amuse himself. Sam simply rolled his eyes, letting the smile spread to a grin as he cleared up the debris. It was good to have him back. "Hey Sam?"

The serious twinge to Dean's voice made Sam look up, one hand resting on top of the bed sheets as he watched his brother slowly start to give in to sleep. He kept his voice quiet,

"Yeah?"

"Thanks."

It didn't need any further explanation. _Thanks for getting the food, thanks for looking after me, thanks for killing the big undead ugly. Thanks ._Sam smiled,

"Anytime Dean…"

And that didn't need any explanation either. _Anytime you need it, anytime you need me. Anytime_. That one was a two-way street and Dean matched Sam's smile with a mild one of his own, eyes still closed contentedly as he took a deep long breath and turned comfortably into the sheets.

"…anytime."

Except maybe, just _maybe_, next time they could manage it without all the mortal peril.

He snorted again, keeping it soft as Dean started to breathe in and out in slow heavy breaths, sleep having over-taken him again.

Yeah right. Them, do _anything_ without encountering the possibility of death?

Who was he kidding?

* * *

Well there you have it, another story done and dusted! (And Dean even got to finish watching his bad TV show so everyone's happy!)

As ever I'm already busy with the next, but first I've got a couple of one-shots that should be up in the next few days should anyone stumble across one!

Thank you to everyone who left reviews - I'm glad I managed to keep some of you on the edge of your seats! Also, to everyone who has read but not reviewed I hope you enjoyed things too, and it is _never_ too late to let me know what you think!


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